Head Factory Part III: Savage Messiah

If the Devil says get down, I get down.

Fuck, I drench this dry concrete desert in malt liquor from the Fillmore to the Mission,

And back home soaking and shook-up from the war.

The hours of life’s seamless continuum grow long and late and heavy with paranoia,

For such antsy, twitching night owls.

So craven and suspicious, fierce wide eyes peering cautiously at every passerby,

Like they’re witnessing a God-awful nightmare–

Every hideous one more frightening than the last in their scowling mundane judgements.


Everything you see in this glorious wasteland is mine or my undead brother’s ’til the end of time,

Or ’til time ends us.

Keep checking out the window just to make sure…

Like, the jarring sounds of the busy, noisome streets stay with our breathless rhythm.

Drunkenly muttering, I come back from the blackout midway through an incoherent sentence,

Staggering and stumbling through a myriad of dirty sweet seduction.

Between aching locked jaws and grinding teeth stained yellow with nicotine,

My swollen purple tongue lolls out of the side of my drool-frothed mouth.


Shit, how long was I gone for?

No one can tell me in this hidden, secret place.

Here no one notices the unbearable world go by and no one thinks to care.

Am I even still alive?

I can’t tell anymore.


Your emotionless face is frowning shut and you mumble vague desires,

And somehow, I instinctively comprehend the deadly remedy you hunger for.

Ill-born desires, however, compelling enough to drag us into the unforgiving daylight,

With maniacal grins on our frost-bitten faces,

And throats thick with rapidly-melting venomous icicles.

We’re ready and willing to burn all outside existence yet again and bathe in the smoldering ashes.


The deep and winding crystalline labyrinth within us both will doubtlessly await our inevitable return.

A silent cavern oozing manufactured heat.

Eerily silent, yes, but sometimes I hear the shrieking of the voiceless dead echoing in my blazing core.

This measureless pitch-black hall I hurtle down is haunted by today’s broken promise,

And a broken weekend, so bittersweet, of spitting on any pointless regrets.

So, keep those white hot fires lit to numbly singe off years of my meandering life,

Oh, soothing stone-cold darkness of mine.

At least you are and always have been my own–

So faithful and unrelenting.

You know we’re not yet through with our ritual self-sacrifice.

Hail to the enduring winter, for it isn’t coming–

No, it’s here.





~ by Jesse Stonefield on June 23, 2014.

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